When Silence Dies
by Forever' of the Stars
Summary: Faced with the mysterious ailments of a 17-yr-old, manipulative young man with telekinetic powers, Dr. House and his team find themselves battling fear and racing time to solve this sci-fi, medical thriller. Set sometime in the first three seasons.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own "House MD". I place the credit of House and all other characters, places, and things related to the TV show in the rightful hands of the owners of "House MD". All other characters aside from those in "House MD" are solely of my creation.

I also do not claim any accuracy in the display of medical knowledge here within. I am not medically trained save in standard first aid.

Prologue

"Mrs. Gray, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for your son," Dr. Mendike declared in a wonderfully portrayed remorseful tone.

The woman who sat before him bore all the signs of a mother disheveled: her hair was messy and graying in a few places, her face was clean of any makeup and accented by deep bags beneath her eyes, results of long nights of endless worry. Her face still held a hint of youthfulness though the rest of her was aged by grief. Mrs. Gray locked her hopeless eyes firmly into those of the man looking down on her. "Nothing? _Nothing?_ After everything we've been through, you tell me now that there is nothing you can do?!" Her voice wavered as she spoke, but the anger behind it was very evident.

The man in the white coat sighed and hugged his clipboard ever more tightly. "We have no idea what he has. We don't know how he'd react to anything we haven't yet tried, and I'm not willing to play games with him," Mendike answered, not quite sure that it was the right response.

"Why? Because you're afraid they might work?" The hard face didn't flinch at this last sarcastic attack.

"No, Mrs. Gray, it isn't that," the doctor replied.

"Then what the hell could it be?!" she cried out. The end of the fuse had been reached; her face contorted maliciously.

"We won't treat him because he's too dangerous."

The woman's face drained of all expression. She looked away from the doctor to her hands clasped firmly at her knees. After a few moments of silence she ventured, "What should I do?"

"There's a doctor in New Jersey by the name of Dr. Gregory House. He's the head of diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. If anyone can help you and your son, Mrs. Gray, it's Dr. House." Dr. Mendike carefully noted some information on a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

Mrs. Gray nodded and held back her tears of frustration as a new hope came to her. She looked up and through the observation window at her seventeen-year old who sat alone at a table, scrawling frantically on a piece of white paper. The sheet quickly metamorphosed into a black monster of fear and beauty as the intricate lines were fashioned upon its surface. The young man at the helm of the pen had hair nearly as white as the paper on which he poured out his soul, but it still held a blonde quality to it. To him, the outside world either didn't exist or didn't matter; it wasn't clear which was true. The other doctors in the room tried to speak with him, but he ignored them. All that mattered at that moment were the paper, the pen, and the ink. As if sensing his mother's watchful eye, Aiden Gray cast his pale icy blue gaze upon her for a moment before returning expressionlessly to his art.

Mrs. Gray finally rested her eyes on the paper in her hand. The scrawls of black ink on white, which had been illegible before this entire affair, spelled out the name of the man who was now her son's last chance.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1  
A Force to be Reckoned With

Dr. James Wilson strolled down the hall toward his office, unfinished paperwork calling his name. He let go a sigh and checked his watch: 10:30. It seemed to him as if it should have been much later than that. He sighed again; thank God for coffee. He passed by the office of the head of diagnostics and halted. Pausing only long enough to roll his eyes, he turned around and crept back to the doorway. Inside sat Dr. Gregory House, reclined in his rolling chair, tossing a tennis ball in the air with practiced motion. Wilson gawked at him. "Don't you have a case?" he asked.

House glanced at his one and only friend then refocused on the tennis ball. "I _might_ have a case."

"Might…" Wilson mused. He stepped closer into the office, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, eyeing the blue folder that sat plainly in sight on the desk. "So, someone _might_ be dying and you're tossing your tennis ball in the air?"

"I don't think he's dying," House replied.

Wilson glanced over into the deserted room. "Where's your team?"

"I told them to hook me up, but I think they went to look at the patient."

"Which is what you're supposed to be doing," Wilson concluded.

"_Should_ be, but it seems kind of pointless when he's not dying."

"Oh, good. So, it's ok to play when you don't think he's dying as compared to when you do?" he inquired.

House lobbed the ball rather awkwardly and spun around in the chair for a miraculous save. He faced Wilson and said, "That would be the basic idea."

Wilson shook his head. "Sometimes I just don't understand you!"

House set the tennis ball on the desk. "He's a nutcase with a mom that thinks he's the most perfect child in the world who has a condition unknown to man. The fact is he's a nutcase."

Wilson's mouth curled ever so slightly. "Yeah…he's spent most of his life dealing with doctors and they all think he's sick; the only difference between them and you is you like to avoid people at all costs. You would do _anything_ to get rid of this kid."

House nodded. "Yeah."

Wilson glared for a moment. "I know this is going against absolutely everything you believe in, but will you just humor the mother, humor _me_, and _look_ at the kid?"

The diagnostician lowered his head and scanned space for a moment. "Why is it always the patients I have to look at?" he asked as rose and grabbed his cane, ignoring the file. He limped from around his desk and headed toward the door, glancing at Wilson on the way out. "Why can't it ever be Cuddy's ass?"

Wilson paused and turned to follow, joining House on his expedition. "Because, so far as we know, nothing is wrong with Cuddy's ass. This patient on the other hand…"

"He's a nutcase!" House chimed in.

"Yes, we all know you think he's a nutcase. The fact is he's still a patient, and it's your job to treat him," Wilson rebuked.

They paused outside of a private room, the shutters drawn shut against the clear glass windows. "Yes, it's my job to treat him. Why should I treat him any differently than any other patient I treat?" At this remark, House paused, his eyes off in space for a moment before refocusing on Wilson. He tilted his head to the side. "You know something."

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes, suddenly appearing guilty. "I don't…"

"Yes you do. What is it that you know?"

Wilson sighed again. "He's not…normal."

House blinked, eyebrows raised. He lifted his head slightly and brought it down on commenting, "Yeah, he's a nutcase."

"Ok, that might be for all we know, but he's still a force to be reckoned with," Wilson added quietly.

Silence followed for a moment before House finished, "Well, so am I." He slid the door open and vanished inside, Wilson trailing behind.

Inside, the room was in complete chaos. Drs Chase, Cameron, and Foreman stood unmoving, glancing over at their entrance. The equipment was backed against the far walls as if shoved and the blankets on the bed were strewn across the room. Mrs. Gray stood pleading in the corner, but it wasn't to the doctors that she was pleading; it was to her son.

Chase licked his lips and took charge of relaying the details. "As soon as we tried have him change clothes he went ballistic."

House just stood, looking at the destruction in the room, the sobbing mother, then finally the crumpled mass in the corner dressed in black with blonde-white hair. "How did he do this?"

The three doctors glanced at each other. Foreman took the torch. "We don't know. He never touched any of this stuff."

"What do you mean he never-"

"He never touched it!" Foreman shouted back.

House glanced at Wilson who only lowered his face. "You mean to tell me he used telekinesis to trash this room?"

"That or he's a wizard," Chase replied.

Mrs. Gray gave up with her son and turned to the doctors. "Please! Please don't give up on him! Please!"

Cameron moved in. "Mrs. Gray, we'll do what we can…"

"Well if you can't even get him to change his damn clothes, how are we supposed to do anything? I told you; he's a nutcase," House said, taking a few steps forward.

Aiden Gray's head snapped up, icy eyes locked on the man. With one thought, he tore the cane from his grip and thrust his back against the wall, holding him there with the cane against his throat. The others in the room gasped. Mrs. Gray sobbed more pleas. Aiden rose and approached the pinioned diagnostician. "You think you can tame me?" the young man asked in a savage voice. "You think you can _fix_ me?!" He stopped, eyes locked. "Do you?!"

House glanced at Aiden in his entirety. Now that he was standing, he was a little more intimidating. "I think you're a nutcase." Wilson shut his eyes at his comment. "But that doesn't mean I can't fix you." Aiden stared a moment longer then released him from the wall. He took two steps back and started to turn when he jerked and crouched, hands clutching his head. He screamed like a demon cast back to hell. He fell to the floor and continued to scream. Chase and Cameron moved in. Foreman grabbed a syringe from a drawer, shouting to the others. And Mrs. Gray watched on in horror as the equipment started working on it's own, running through numbers like wildfire. House looked at the heart monitor, connected to nothing, as it sped well into numbers beyond human life and exploded.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
Observations

"What do we know?" House asked tapping the whiteboard impatiently for a moment. Silence followed as his team exchanged blank glances. "Come on! What do we know?!"

Foreman shifted in his chair. "Well, seeing as how we haven't really been able to get close to him…"

"Fine! You haven't had a chance to do anything medically valuable. You want me to cut you a break, well too bad. You're better than this. What do we know?" he pressed.

Chase leaned back and answered, "He's 17."

House took the response and wrote it down. "Good. The zombies speak. What else?"

Cameron waved her hands a little and added, "He has telekinesis."

"And white/blonde hair and blue eyes, but none of this has anything to do with his _health_!" Foreman shouted.

"Telekinesis might," House responded, focused on the whiteboard.

"Yeah. It might, but it might not," Foreman said.

Cameron sighed quietly. "He's right. We can't base our diagnosis on a maybe symptom."

House rounded on them. "Why do you say that now? That's exactly the stuff we do all the time!"

"Just because we do it all the time doesn't mean we haven't said it every time," Chase answered.

Foreman leaned forward. "We can't base our diagnosis off a symptom that could or couldn't be-"

"Ever hear of quantum physics? That entire science is devoted to maybes," House interrupted.

A foreboding tension built in the room between Foreman and House. Chase glanced between the two, then stated, "Yeah, but this is _not_ quantum physics. We're talking about a 17-year-old kid and his medical problems."

A scoff escaped from the man with the marker. "His _maybe_ medical problems," he sneered quietly.

Foreman stared. "You're pressing us for ideas, accepting any and all of them without question, yet you don't think he's even sick?"

House dropped his head. "If I've said it one I've said it a hundred times…I think the kid's a nutcase. I want to know what you think."

"Like hell you do," Foreman replied. "You're doing it because Cuddy's making you."

"Or because you find him interesting," Wilson added, framed in the doorway. The team all turned, and a silence followed.

House reached carefully for the right words. "Since when do my interests matter?"

Wilson eyed him. "Your interest gives you motive. What's your motive for treating him?"

Shrugging, House responded, "He's interesting." Another silence.

"Well, since there's obviously more to this story that I intend to uncover---God knows why---I'll tell you what I came to say. The patient has been sedated and he's all yours," Wilson stated.

All eyes went to House. He tapped the marker against his mouth in concentration. "Run the basics," he ordered.

His team remained frozen for a moment, then Chase and Cameron shifted simultaneously. Foreman remained firmly seated. "Tests that we already have multiple results for?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. The other two doctors stood rooted for the reply.

"Yes, because we have multiple results we don't know which to trust. Let's get our own toys to play with; I don't like sharing," House finalized with a direct glance at Wilson.

Foreman accepted it and left with the others. Wilson waited until they were well out of earshot before asking, "You've come to the conclusion that he's sick then?"

"I never said that," House answered.

"Well, he interests you and you've involved yourself in the case…I guess I made the assumption that-"

"He's a nutcase," House interrupted.

Mouth agape, Wilson raised a hand to his head. "You're still running with the nutcase bit?"

"It's true."

"No! No, it's not," Wilson replied wagging a finger. "And even if it was, you haven't had nearly enough observation time to come to that conclusion?"

"I solve cases like this with little or no observation time all the time. The only difference between this time and any other time is this happens to be this time."

"Ok, now you're just trying to avoid the situation-"

"Yes I am," House cut in.

"-which means it's embarrassing to you," Wilson finished, a finger extended philosophically before him. As House's head dipped low, he snapped his fingers. "I knew it! I knew it!"

"It wasn't anything," House muttered.

"He scared you."

"He did not _scare_ me."

"Well he sure as hell didn't tickle your funny bone!" Wilson paused a moment. "You didn't change your position on the state of his mind, so something that happened in that room spurred you to work this case."

"I already told you," House countered. "I'm interested."

Wilson shook his head. "No, if it was just interest the file would have sucked you in. This is something else; something bigger."

House faced him in full. "I wanted to demonstrate my care for him as a human being," he said with a successfully rendered earnest face.

"Yeah, I'll believe that one when pigs fly." Wilson sighed. "Fine. You don't want to tell me. I won't ask." He turned and left the room.

House limped over to his office and collapsed in his chair, snatching his tennis ball. He bounced it off the wall a few times then paused in consideration. He sighed and eyed the file on his desk. He moved for it then pushed it away, and continued tossing the ball.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
Behind Blue Eyes

Aiden's eyes slowly opened to a blinding white room. His body felt strangely drained. He simply laid there with his eyes open, too tired to do anything else. He could feel the weight of his street clothes on his frame, the familiar burden of his broken watch, and the rhythmic beating of his heart. After he assessed his immediate areas of concern, he turned his focus to his surroundings.

The surface below him was soft: a bed. The walls radiated a dull shine: a plastic composite. The ceiling was made from the same material, light tubing tracing the cracks between the panels. This light blinded him. He narrowed his eyes. It made him angry. He summoned his strength and rose.

Immediately the wave of pain collided into him, hitting him so hard he curled and cried out. He expected it to be as intense as the Darkness, but it wasn't. Something—someone did this to him.

He stumbled from the bed as the pain dulled to a consistent throb. It hit him again and he fell to his knees with a yell. He attempted to rise once more, but it rushed in and knocked him down. Suddenly, the pressing of eyes became apparent. He glanced around but no one was in the room save him. A wave caught him and he was on the ground again only this time it was much worse. His yell escalated to a scream and a dull drumming entered his conscience.

A prick of an entirely new pain vaguely registered in his mind and a deadening calm spread over him like water over a fire. Aiden's final scream ended with an echo and the rest of the world returned to him blurred as if underwater. He was lifted from the floor and placed on the bed by a group of blurry figures. They were speaking, but the sound was muffled. Ever so slowly the words became clearer and more distinct even as he still could not see the faces.

Dr. Foreman dominated the scene; his voice easily recognizable even through the slurry murk. "There's no way it's…he doesn't…disorders don't cause…needs help," he said. He turned and exited the room, the others following behind.

As they approached the door, it slammed shut. They all stared at it, but Foreman was the only one brave enough to attempt shoving it open. When it refused to open, they all turned to find Aiden on his feet, slouched over, clasping the bed frame with one hand. He still couldn't see very clearly, but his hearing was profound. "What have you done to me?" he asked. The feeling of other eyes caught him again and he glanced around uneasily, slowly circling the outside of the room with a hand on the wall.

"Don't answer him," a voice commanded over the speakers.

The lights flickered as Aiden continued to frantically scan the room. Foreman glanced about uneasily, then spoke to the ceiling, "So what are we supposed to do? He locked us in!"

Aiden backed against a wall, his heart pounding ferociously. He braced his free hand against his chest and cried, "What have you done to me?!" The lights flickered dangerously once more and the bed shook. Even the speakers went berserk, spitting out endless waves of static. "What have you done to me?!" he shouted as the startled group of doctors and nurses stood wide-eyed.

"Don't answer him," the voice cut through the static.

"House, we don't have a choice! He's not going to let us go until we tell him," Foreman replied.

"He's upset. He'll deal with it."

"Any other person maybe, but not him, House," Foreman answered.

"Oh, I forget. You're afraid of him because he has telekinesis. Well stop being an idiot and grow up."

"That's right; I'm an idiot because I'm a little edgy about being in a room with a kid who can control nearly anything with his mind."

A silence followed Foreman's words, then the room exploded with sound as Aiden fell to his knees with a scream, his hand clutching his chest. The lights continued to flicker and an earth-shaking rumble erupted forth. The team rushed forward. As they worked to calm him, House commented, "Now would be the opportune time to shoot him up with some Haldol and escape."

"Except that we can't because the previous treatment we gave to him can have-"

"Severe reactions with the presence of Haldol, yeah, but fortunately for both of us I switched the syringes."

Foreman stared for a moment at the speaker. "You what?!"

"Your idea was dumb, so I did the rational thing and embraced my own. Lucky for you I did; with his latest symptoms he could have had a severe negative reaction."

Foreman shook his head roughly with anger and proceeded to administer the Haldol. When he was finished, he faced the far wall and spat, "Chest pain doesn't necessarily mean his reaction would have been severe. It sure as hell doesn't mean I'm wrong." With that, he stormed out of the room.

Aiden's tension immediately dissipated. His pain dulled, though he doubted it was from the recent injection. The levels of anger in the room had been phenomenal; there was no denying that…

The sensation of watching eyes, which a moment ago had felt so oppressive, didn't feel so foreign anymore. The nurses gently aided him to rise and gave him support to get him back to his bed, but just before they moved away from the wall, Aiden lifted his head and penetrated the composite panel directly across from them with his hard gaze. On the other side of the panel stood Dr. House, who, upon feeling the weight of the young man's gaze, found himself contemplating for the second time that day the fact that maybe he wasn't a complete nutcase after all.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
A Matter of Curiosities

The day expired into evening well before House left the hospital for the night. The intense brainstorming session that took place between the time he left the observation room and the moment he crossed the threshold of his home explored more options than many other diagnosticians ever saw in all the cases of their careers. And it had only been one afternoon. With nothing else left in his mind to ponder, House dumped his stuff in a corner, grabbed a drink from the kitchen, and crossed immediately over to the piano. Music filled the room and he let his mind wander through the notes and melodies. There was no sheet music for him to look at; he either created it on the spot or browsed the impressive repertoire he mentally compiled over his many years of playing.

No more than fifteen minutes passed, and a hand pounded his door. House easily recognized the irritating sense that Wilson was near. "Enter at your own peril!" he shouted over the piano. He heard the door open and close and footfalls upon the floor slowly approaching, but Wilson still stayed well away from him. Before he could be accused of anything, House said, "He isn't a nutcase."

"So I hear," Wilson replied. "It's grand of you to stoop down to the conclusion that everyone else came to a long time ago. It almost touches a fuzzy place in my heart." The sarcasm could not have been more plain.

"If you're going to start talking about fuzzy places, I'm going to play louder." And, to prove his point, he pounded the keys as Wilson tried to speak again.

"Alright! Alright!" the oncologist was finally able to get out. "We won't go there. I'm just curious as to what changed your mind."

House held a chord even though the original score called for no fermata and asked, "You came here because of a curiosity?"

Wilson paused. "You would do the same thing if it was really bugging you."

"So the real question here is why does it bug you?" House countered.

"You're still trying to avoid the subject. I would've thought you would have been a little more open about it by now," Wilson said, turning around to head back out the door.

"Why? Just because I changed my mind about one thing; a thing that wasn't even that big of a deal to begin with?"

Wilson rounded on him and spat, "But it is a big deal! Before you had two ideas and you completely blew off Foreman's idea because it didn't fit in with your view of the kid and now-"

"Hold on. Foreman whined to you?" House inquired.

"First off, he didn't whine, and anyway it doesn't matter if he did or didn't. The point is, since you've changed your mind the number of theories has sky-rocketed through the roof! This is a big deal, House! No, no, it's not big; it's huge! This kid's finally looking at getting some serious help!"

House took in a deep breath and played at a quieter dynamic as he muttered, "Here it comes."

"But you being the egotistical cripple you are, you made an assumption which could have cost him his life!"

House pulled his hands away from his keys and faced Wilson. "Oh that's crap. He wasn't going to die because I thought he was a nutcase. He was going to die because we didn't have anything to run off of."

"So, you got absolutely every bit of useful information for this case from watching him scream in agony and yell at Foreman? You learned nothing from all the tests you ran?"

House lowered his gaze a bit. "We didn't learn anything new from the tests; we just got confirmation on certain bits and pieces. This kid has had almost every test known to man run on him and everything has turned up just as useless as everything else. It's almost as if whatever he's got doesn't want to be found."

Wilson, his temper somewhat quelled, sighed and answered in a quieter voice, "Or he doesn't want it to be found."

"Then why would he have threatened me with my own cane and asked me if I thought I could fix him? Why not just continue to refuse treatment?" the diagnostician asked, staring off to the side before looking back at Wilson.

"What if he wasn't asking you if you could fix him as a plea, but rather as a dare?" A short silence followed, and Wilson stepped closer, hands raised in a gesture. "What if instead of asking for help he was stating a challenge?"

House raised his head, his eyes off in the distance. Then, he grabbed his cane, abandoned the piano bench and snagged his keys and jacket. As he limped for the door, Wilson asked, "Where are you going?"

"Suddenly I'm curious," he answered.

"Your team is running ragged, have been all night, doing all of the work you so willingly dumped on them and you're going to go back simply because of a curiosity?" Wilson asked.

"You came out here because of a curiosity," House retorted. "Am I to assume that I shouldn't be able to do the same as you? Or does that egotistical assumption risk my patient's life?" At Wilson's silence, House nodded. "Lock the door on your way out." He turned and left his friend in silence.

Wilson remained motionless for a moment, waiting for the familiar sound of House's car driving away. He released a sigh, glanced around, and left the residence of Dr. Gregory House, deciding that following the man wouldn't be as fruitful this evening as he had originally thought.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
A Battle of Minds

Aiden Gray sat on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, taking joy in the simple act of breathing. It didn't matter now what they had done to him; what could he do to change it? Instead, all that mattered right now was that he was alive and still well in control of the situation, so long as he didn't allow himself to slip into the Darkness again. He let loose a smile. He took pleasure in the power of being the one.

Suddenly the door knob turned, which drew Aiden's full attention, and in stepped Dr. Gregory House, eyeing the young man with his arrogant eyes. As carefully as he opened the door, he closed it again, and then faced Aiden in full, shifting his weight to his left side. It was clear that the diagnostician would much rather be somewhere else at this time, but he remained by the door, not daring to come any closer than he had to. Shortly, a pall fell over the room; both of the occupants staring down the other.

It was Aiden who smirked and broke the silence. "I'm rather surprised to see you here all alone," he said in his quite savage voice. "Your kind has a tendency to travel in packs around me. Apparently, you people find strength in numbers. I don't know why. It's not like it would save you in the end…" The thought trailed off ghostly.

"Why are you here?" House asked, cutting straight to the point.

"Why are _you_ here?" Aiden inquired back. Neither made a move to answer that question.

"Well, you're here for a reason; whether that reason is that your mother is making you, you find it entertaining, or you really are sick is all up in the air at this point. We have evidence to fit all three."

"Do you?"

"Yes, we do. You're mother brought you in here, you've been smirking since I walked in this room, and you've collapsed several times due to unexplained outbursts of pain."

This last comment made Aiden's face darken. A short while passed in which he absorbed himself in memory. "It steals in as if from nowhere. I can never tell when it's going to strike and when it's going to stop, but it renders me useless. I hate that. It makes me feel…weakened; like I can't go on. I know it sounds insane, because I've been told time and again that I'm special or I'm unique, or I'm dangerous…but I still can't help that I feel…at a loss…without it…" Another silence closed in.

"So there is something else going on here," House stated with a sense of finality. He gave a brief nod and turned to leave.

Just as the man's hand touched the door knob Aiden stated, "You don't accept that answer." House turned around; the young man was watching him carefully. "You and I both know it."

"But you just said-"

"I know what I just said!" Aiden snarled. "The point was you were looking for an answer, and I gave it to you. You're ready to get the hell out of here as soon as you can, so you take the first thing that sounds like a confession and run off with it. But we both know you don't believe it. So why do you run? What's the point? I've already been penned up for most of my life, injected with solutions beyond imagining. I know that you're all afraid of me; that I might hurt you at any given moment."

"Then why don't you? If your life is so horrible, why don't you snap like anyone else?" House asked.

"Because if I did I _would_ be stuck here forever."

"But that's not all of it." House slowly approached the bed. "There's something else."

Aiden's face twitched. "If I snapped the Darkness would never go away."

"The Darkness?"

"That's what I call it: the pain. I know there's something out there that can get rid of it; someone that can take it away. If I let my anger control me no one will dare help me, and I'll be stuck with it."

"I'm stuck with pain all the time."

"Wouldn't you want it gone?" Aiden asked. The silence that followed answered his question. "And it isn't that it would be there all the time…it would take over me. And then…"

"Then what?"

Aiden fixed House with his relentless stormy eyes. "Then there would be hell to pay."

"Just like I said before," House muttered. "There is something else going on here." He turned to leave.

"What?"

"You could have let me go with my original belief that something more than the apparent was taking place here, but instead you decided to play with me. And now I have all the info I needed in the first place." With a self-satisfied sigh, House went for the door, but the knob wouldn't turn. A menacing chuckle from behind caused him to turn.

Aiden's head was dropped low so that his face was shrouded in shadow save for his eyes, lending them a demonic glint. "You may be powerful in your intelligence, House, but I've got a power that yours simply can't compete against."

"You've already confessed that you won't hurt anyone."

For the second time in twelve hours, House's cane was ripped from his grasp and pinned him against the wall. "It was you who decided you wanted to wage this war. You think you've won the battle, but you're still fighting deep in my territory. And that, my friend, is a dangerous place to be."

Aiden released his hold on the doctor's cane, and it fell harmlessly to the floor. House bent to pick it up, never releasing eye contact with his patient, then silently left the room.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
It DID Matter

House was never on time to work, nor was he early. So when Dr. Cameron walked into the adjoined office space she was surprised to find him sitting at his desk, a coffee cup sitting vacantly nearby. He was staring off as usual, which seemed odd to her at this hour. Timidly, she walked through the door. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I was researching. Then, when that proved uneventful, I decided to sit and contemplate the meaning of life," he replied. She knew he wasn't trying really hard to make this joke because he said it all in the same tired tone. "I'm thinking about Aiden."

"You actually remember a patient's name?" Cameron asked, stunned though her voice didn't portray it.

"If they're interesting enough I'll remember," House answered. "Or if I can't figure them out…"

As the thought died away, Cameron reached for his coffee cup. "I'll get you some more."

"Thanks."

She disappeared into the other room and fiddled with the coffee pot. "So, what exactly were you researching?"

"I was doing some brush up on DID."

"You think he has multiple personalities now?" She walked back into his office with fresh, steaming coffee, and handed him the cup.

He took it from her and stared at it for a moment, holding the warmth in his hands. It was hot; that was obvious. But it made a part of him happy inside. "I think it's a possibility at this point. After all, he has his moments of relative peace, and then you turn around, and he wants to rip your heart out."

"And the pain?" Cameron asked.

"Can be a symptom that one of his personalities suffers, and-"

"And he, the real Aiden, just happens to catch it once and a while?"

As she said it, he dropped his head. "It's possible. If they all share one body, then why can't they all feel the pain."

"Stop talking about him like he's three different people."

"Why? As far as we know it hasn't been ruled out-"

"As far as we know it hasn't been proved that he _does_ have DID." She paused, then she cocked her head to the side. "Why are you here?"

"Don't I work here? Sometimes I forget…"

She rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant. You always sleep in till at least-"

"Do not attempt to play my game with me. There's a reason why it's mine in the first place." He sighed. "Listen: you want to talk about me and my habits, go talk to Wilson. I'm sure he'd love to indulge." He rose from his chair with his coffee cup in hand.

"Where are you going?"

"To pee."

"With your coffee?"

He stopped and glared at her. "Why are you so wound up about this? What does it matter where I'm going?"

She placed her hands on her hips. "What does it matter if I want to know?"

"What if I'm going to go tp Cuddy's house? Are you sure you and your morals want to get involved with that kind of chaos?"

A smile crossed her face, whether because she found the aspect of House tping Cuddy's home amusing or she knew she would win this argument was up in the air. "If you were going to tp Cuddy's house, you wouldn't bother bringing the coffee, and you'd head immediately over to Wilson's office."

"Well this just shows you!" House retorted like a schoolboy. He sipped the coffee and headed out the door, directly toward Wilson's office. He stepped inside without knocking, casting one last glance back---complete with a childish face---at Cameron, who had moved to the hallway to watch.

Wilson looked up at House's unexpected arrival without even the slightest hint of confusion staining his face. "I assume you're playing hide-and-seek with someone?"

"No," House replied, heading for the couch. "I told Cameron I was going to go tp Cuddy's house."

Wilson paused. "So, to prove your point, you hid in my office."

House gave a brief nod. "To simulate that we evil geniuses were formulating an evil plan."

"What other kind of plan would evil geniuses devise?" He finished a bit of paperwork and tossed it aside. "Of course, devising evil plans completely disrupts me asking you what you're really doing here."

"I'm taking refuge."

"From evil Cameron?"

"She's not evil, just annoying."

"What did you do this time?" Wilson asked, sorting through random files.

"I came up with a theory," House responded, gaze not leaving the floor.

As nothing was said, Wilson ventured, "And?"

"DID," House replied.

"What did he do to you last night?"

House stared at him for a moment, then glanced "nervously" behind him. "Where did that accusing question come from? You know, I think it came from under this couch." He rose and limped for the door. "I'm going to escape before the couch monster snags me."

"You're an evil genius; you fear no couch. Now spill it."

He paused. "I did my usual interrogation, and he got angry."

"Naturally," Wilson replied. All of his patients did. It was nothing new.

"But it wasn't the type of angry that normal people assume. He seemed almost…demonic."

"And he wasn't before?" Wilson asked.

"No…before he was silent and distant. Then, all of a sudden, he's one of the damned released from hell. Huh." House halted in thought, then exited through the door without another word.

"See you later," Wilson mumbled after him. He was sure now of the fact that he would never understand the man he called his friend, but maybe that was for the benefit of everyone. Without giving it another thought, he cast the mysteries aside and returned to filling out his paperwork.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
Once Innocent, Now Monstrous

House found Mrs. Gray sitting on a bench in an abandoned hallway on the fourth floor, desperately clinging to a steaming Styrofoam cup. Wisps of her dark hair stuck out at odd angles, doting upon her that same worn out air that was always present. As House came closer, her focus shot to him, and she shifted, her eyes immediately morphing from distant to fear-filled. She recognized him, but she hadn't seen that much of him, which made her afraid. "Is he…Aiden…" she muttered, unable to say any one complete thought.

"At the moment, he's doing ok," House replied. "I came here to talk about him."

"What about him?" Mrs. Gray sipped hesitantly at her coffee.

"I think your son has DID."

"You think he has multiple personalities?" she asked incredulously. "You think the others haven't thought of this before? It's the first thing they all say! And you know what?! It never is DID! Never has been, never will be!"

"Has he ever been treated for it?" House asked, his head dropping lower.

"They tried once, but it didn't work because apparently they didn't diagnose it correctly."

He was blank for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"They couldn't finish treating him because they couldn't recognize separate personalities. He was only ever one single person, just with different attitudes."

"That's because he's clever," House muttered, looking off in the distance for a moment. "He knows how to twist everyone around him on his finger. Why should a psychiatrist be any different to him?"

"He cares," Mrs. Gray added in a softer tone. "Deep down inside I recognize the boy who wants all this pain to be gone. I see it in him, Dr. House, but everyone else just shoves that aside."

"So, there's a part of him that cares, and a part of him that likes toying with people." Both parties said nothing. "All the technical dealings aside, do you think your son has different personalities?"

Mrs. Gray scoffed. "I already told you: it never has been DID! They were wrong! I just want my son-"

"That's not what I asked," House interjected. "Do you or do you not think your son has multiple personalities?"

Mrs. Gray stared gaping at the diagnostician. "Why does it matter what I think? None of you ever bothered to ask me before, so why should it-"

"A mother knows her son best," House replied.

Freezing in her rant, Mrs. Gray found herself caught off-guard by House's comment. She paused for a moment, and she glanced off toward the wall. As the moments passed, Mrs. Gray's face melted slowly into tears, and she wrestled a tissue forth from her purse. "He wasn't always mean and callous," she said after a while. "That's new in him. I still recognize him, the way he was before all this took serious hold of him. But now it's been fused with this monster that I barely recognize." She resolved to sobbing.

"By monster, you mean the telekinesis?" House stated.

"No, no," Mrs. Gray answered, her gaze fallen upon the sodden fibers in her hands. "He always had telekinesis, but he was very good with it. He still is, I suppose, but that monstrous side of him pushes it to a dangerous level, and…" She sobbed some more.

"So, as you see it, he _does_ have different personalities?"

"You could say that, I suppose," she answered.

"If you feel that strongly about it, you should let us do an examination to determine if he really does have DID. And then we can discuss treatment." He gazed down at her, and she found his eyes. A shred of hope had found its way through the sadness into them. "Right now, it's his best chance."

She glanced down at the decimated tissue in contemplation, then lifted her head again. She nodded, and faintly replied, "Yes. Yes, do it."

Giving a brief nod, House turned and limped back down the hallway.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
Broken Motif

As hours passed idly by, House's team took turns sitting in Aiden's observation room, watching the proceedings inside the room. This time around it happened to be Dr. Chase's turn. It was seven in the evening, and although it wasn't clear to the doctor what the real cause was, Aiden was clearly agitated. The pair of psychiatrists in the room with him were attempting to confirm he had DID, but it wasn't going well for them.

Chase watched on silently as they went about their futile business. They obviously wouldn't get the diagnosis they needed because the kid was too smart, and it's nearly impossible to diagnose a condition that a patient doesn't even have. At least, that was what Chase thought. From House's attitude (and the mother's consent), it was apparent that other people truly believed the kid had multiple personalities.

On the other side of the wall, Aiden glanced at the face of his broken watch for the umpteenth time during the psychiatrists' session. The voice of one of the psychiatrists edged in through the speaker, cutting into Chase's attention. "Why are you checking your watch, Aiden? There's a clock on the wall."

"You want me to tell you that the one on the wall is wrong or something?" Aiden asked, stinging sarcasm staining his words.

"Well, the one you're wearing is broken, isn't it?"

Aiden stared for a moment. "Yes."

Chase watched carefully. The psychiatrist continued. "Then why look at it? Why wear it?"

A smile curved Aiden's lips. "Why not? Doesn't hurt anybody, does it?"

The other came in. "Just seems pointless, doesn't it?"

Aiden leaned closer. "What's pointless here is whatever you're trying to accomplish."

Chase muttered a quick "Amen" to that under his breath. This kid was good at knowing himself, but he still had a really creepy feeling about him. No…it wasn't about _him_;it was something _about_ him.

The psychiatrists glanced at each other, then in Chase's direction. They couldn't see him through the panel, but Chase gave a shrug anyway. They turned away from his direction, and they mumbled to each other, Aiden watching them as intently as predator watches prey.

At this moment, House entered the observation room. He glanced silently between Chase, the psychiatrists, and Aiden. His eyes paused the longest on the latter.

"This is pointless," Chase said. "The kid's nothing more than riled up at this point. There's no other personality in him than that."

"You have no idea," House replied. He looked at his underling. "Nothing else explains all his symptoms."

"DID explains chest pain?"

House shrugged. "It could be a memory he can't shake that a certain personality recalls."

Chase smirked. "Even you don't believe that." They both gazed silently at the group in the room. Aiden glanced at his watch again.

"So, what are they doing now?" House asked.

"Figuring out a new plan, I guess," Chase answered.

House nodded then picked up the microphone. "If you've run out of options, gents, might I suggest Plan D?"

The two glanced up at the new voice, gazing at the panel. They refocused on each other for a moment. One nodded in agreement with the other, and they turned back to Aiden.

Confused, Chase gaped. "What's Plan D?"

"Ask him about what he's most afraid of," House answered.

"Aiden," the bravest psychiatrist ventured. "What's the Darkness?"

Aiden's head snapped up from his watch, his eyes glaring menacingly at the pair. "Who told you about that?"

"What is it, Aiden?" the other pressed.

"Who told you?" The blue eyes peering from beneath strands of nearly white hair narrowed dangerously with each syllable. As they made no move to answer, Aiden's face relaxed. "Oh I get it…this is another game for you, isn't it, Dr. House?" He rose, and, taking deliberate steps, approached the wall directly in front of where House stood on the other side. "If you want to know, you should ask him. He already knows that secret of mine."

"But we want to hear it from you," the first said.

Silent, and intent on remaining so, Aiden did not remove his eyes from the wall.

The psychiatrists exchanged glances. The other took up the torch. "What does the Darkness symbolize, Aiden? What _is_ it? It's important that you tell us."

He cast a glance at his watch, gazing at it longingly. Then, he rose his eyes back up till they reached those of the man on the other side. Now, they were sad eyes. While he stared, he removed the watch and held it up to the wall. "Your time is running out," he said solemnly. He lowered the watch, and he put it back on his wrist. Lowering his gaze, he turned and sat on the bed, drawing his knees close.

One of the psychiatrists moved to speak to him, but House came in over the intercom, "We're done."

They glanced over, then left the room. They entered the observation room, the first speaker in the forefront. "I'm surprised you had us chase this tail so long," he said.

"He doesn't have DID," the second said blandly.

"I never suspected he did," House replied.

They gazed emptily at him. The second scoffed, then turned hotly on his heels and stormed angrily away. The first glanced down, and he shook his head for a moment. "We spent all day doing this, and you never suspected he even had the condition?"

House shrugged. "You spent all day questioning him, and he never so much as shouted at you. Now we _know_ he doesn't have it."

The psychiatrist shook his head. "You're a piece of work, Dr. House," he muttered, then he too fled through the door.

Chase stared blankly at their patient. "So what did this all really accomplish?"

"We know more about his behavior, and, specifically, why he's wearing that watch."

"We do?" Chase asked incredulously.

"Yup. It's not there to tell him what time it is."

"Uh, yeah. We kinda knew that since we saw it was broken when we removed it for his tests."

House paused a moment. "Yeah, I know. I was getting to a bigger point."

"Which is?"

Here, House shifted his gaze. Chase followed it over to Aiden, who was gazing forlornly at his broken watch. "As I said, it's not there to tell him what time it is. It's there to tell him how much time he has left."

Chase's gaze moved back to House. "How much time he has _left_? Till what? And how could a watch know that?"

House shrugged. "I don't know. But the time on it was 2:23:04 pm with a date of 10/17...which gives us approximately two days and nineteen hours to figure out what's wrong with him."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
Purpose

…faeries? Was that what he dreamt of? He couldn't remember…

Aiden opened his eyes to slits to view the room, but it was all blurry from sleeping. As he lay there, not feeling and not willing to feel, something appeared strange to him. He raised his left arm: the unnecessary culprit. It felt deadened, but as he raised it, a sharp pain radiated from his fingers all the way to his shoulder blade. With an involuntary grimace, he recoiled, and he clamped his painful arm to his stomach, arching his spine and dragging his knees up. The only sound he made was a sharp inhaling hiss, and his head dropped back to the pillow as the worst of the pain passed.

A flash of his dream came to mind: a sweeping darkness chasing an elegant white peacock. As the image floated in his view, he stared wide-eyed. Then, frantically, he crawled from the bed and stood. His legs felt weak, but they fortunately held his weight. Hastily, he stumbled over to the sketchbook and pen laying haphazard and forgotten on the floor. He fell to his knees before it, and as a wave of pain flooded him, he took up the pen and harshly flipped the cover open. It took him well until the middle of the book to find a clean page, and the time passed eternally slow as his arm throbbed. The peacock threatened ever to be swallowed by the darkness, but he had to draw it; it simply had to be done. The pen scoured the pristine white of the page, and slowly the black lines formed the serene peacock and his inevitable doom.

The minute hand flew around the face of the clock, and beads of sweat formed at Aiden's brow as he worked. As he did so, the pain escalated. Despite it, he did everything he could to bite it back and work on the drawing. Eventually, the moment came when he could no longer ignore it, and he continued to work: his piece was only half done.

Then, time dragged on dreadfully slow as minute-by-minute the page filled up with a dark black. The silence of the room was broken by pants and quiet moans. The pins and needles became blades. Eyes narrowed against unbidden tears, he continued to spew his dream onto the paper.

At long last, the final marks fashioned the completed work, and Aiden dropped the pen to clutch his arm which blazed with a hellish pain. He threw back his head, and he released a scream of agony. A commotion gathered at his door, and a surge of personnel rushed toward him as his vision blurred. His scream died only when he had no more air left in his lungs to expel, then he fell to the floor.

And the peacock watched from its page as both it and its creator were swallowed by the welcoming darkness and painlessness of the unconscious world.

After spending most of the day trying theory after theory and getting nowhere, House and his team found themselves irritable, tired, faced with a problem no solution up to that point solved and a counter that spiraled ever downward. And the news of Aiden's latest symptom went over just about as well as hard butter on dry toast to everyone save House.

"So, chest pain, peripheral neuropathy in his arm, and…well, I guess that's really all we have…Anyway, chest pain, peripheral neuropathy, go!" House said.

Cameron sipped her coffee. "Essentially, the same diagnosis fit as before."

"But none of the treatments worked," House told the whiteboard. "Therefore, it must be something else. Let's get something fresh in this room. Everything else in it is stale and crusty."

"This is pointless," Foreman mumbled.

House faced him, and waved his marker arm. "Don't be Chase, be the psychiatrists."

Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances, then looked at Chase, who shrugged. "I'm assuming that actually means something," Foreman replied.

House nodded. "Certainly does. Where Chase questioned everything I did and told me repeatedly it was pointless, the psychiatrists simply did what they were supposed to."

"And despite their best efforts, it really was pointless all along," Chase rebuked.

House leaned on his cane. "Yes, in that instance, but not here. Now we have the fresh material we've been waiting for, and you're all ready to toss this kid aside. How do you think that would make him feel?"

"He'd probably laugh," Foreman answered.

Chase chuckled.

House stared him down. "You think that's funny?"

"Well, it's true!" he replied. "The kid's all about challenging people."

"So are you, but that's because your Daddy left you," Foreman responded.

"And you've got a criminal record because your Daddy was religious to the core," Chase retorted.

"Oh, stop it. We all know that you love your Daddies even though they screwed you over," House butted in. "On the other hand, we have a kid who's going to die if we don't save him. Care to talk about _him_?"

"My Dad didn't screw me over," Foreman muttered.

"By _him_, I meant the patient," House clarified.

Cameron glanced over her copy of Aiden's file. "It says here that his mother's side has multiple diagnosed cases of heart conditions. Maybe all of this is just the result of that."

House paused for a moment, and tilted his head up in concentration. "You're thinking hereditary."

Chase raised an eyebrow in consideration. "Well, that would make sense. We haven't really focused on that particular idea yet."

"Yeah, because it didn't fit," Foreman added.

"But now he has a new symptom," Cameron replied.

House tapped his cane on the floor. "Which dismisses a lot of theories. He's being monitored 24/7...has been for most of his life. If it was a heart condition like the ones his ancestors had, do you really think he would last this long _and_ not be diagnosed sooner?"

Silence engulfed the room; they knew the question was rhetorical.

"So, we're back to square one," Foreman muttered.

"Not entirely," House replied.

The three gaped at him. "You just said-" Cameron began.

"I said it was highly unlikely it was a _heart_ condition. I never said it wasn't hereditary." He capped the marker, and he tossed it on the table.

"Where are you going?" Cameron asked as he began limping toward the door.

"I am going to find out more about Mrs. Gray's husband," he replied. He exited the room, and he disappeared from view.

Cameron stared after him, and Foreman released a scoff. "What?" Chase inquired.

Foreman tapped the file and said, "His father's side of the family has its own problems. They've had recurring neurological issues."

Cameron released a deep sigh. "This poor kid is the accumulation of generations of medical problems."

Chase stirred his coffee, deep in thought. "Then, maybe it wasn't as pointless as we thought." The other two stared at him. "The psychiatric evaluation. If this _is_ a neurological problem, they might have useful information."

"But that's just the mental side of it. We still know squat about his physical side," Foreman stated. "Still, you have a point. If this is neurological, knowing the way he thinks and operates will definitely be helpful in pinpointing the problem."

"So all we can do is wait?" Cameron asked.

After a moment of contemplation, Chase broke in. "His room is monitored by camera as well as people. Why don't we go review the tapes?"

Cameron inhaled timidly. "But, if House is off talking to Mrs. Gray, then he must have…"

"What? A brilliant idea based on a notation in a file?" Foreman asked.

She held her hands out defensively. "He has a way of doing those things."

Chase shrugged. "What's the harm in trying?"

Nobody spoke. After exchanging glances, Foreman nodded. "Let's do it." Abandoning their coffee cups, the three made their way to Aiden's observation room as House found Mrs. Gray and moved to make his inquiry.

Aiden swam through the vicious jet river in his unconscious world, trying to make his way to the shining gold island on the other side, but being continually swept away by the unbeatable current. And, mocking him from the shore, faeries danced, singing about a white peacock swept away with the waves.

Less than two days remained.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
Waiting and Fearing

"What do you mean you think it's hereditary?" Mrs. Gray inquired stolidly.

House stood silent for a moment, then replied, "I mean I think it's hereditary. What do you think I mean?"

She rolled her eyes, and shifted her weight, attempting to match his height. "You know what! Why should this sort of thing even surprise me?! After all this time, wouldn't it seem fitting that it was my fault all along?!" As she spoke, she waved her arms about and scoffed at the prospect's absurdity.

Leaning on his cane, he let her finish her rant. "I never said it was hereditary on your end."

She froze where she was, and she spun, staring at him, a tear at the edge of her eye. "What?" she asked in but a whisper.

He stepped closer. "I think he has a neurological condition. Aiden's family history shows that his father's side had several problems with-"

Her sharp inhalation stopped him cold. "Damn it, Ted!" she cursed softly.

House looked at her for a moment, then said, "Ok, this is the point where you tell me something major and life-changing about you're ex…Well, for Aiden at least it'll be life-changing. For you it'll just be bad memories."

Mrs. Gray scoffed. "Ted is not my ex. He's still alive, and we're still married. It's just that…He wouldn't recognize my face if looked at him…He wouldn't recognize Aiden…" More tears glistened in her eyes.

"Dementia," House answered for her, and she convulsed with sobs. "What caused it?"

She shook her head. "Not dementia…paranoid schizophrenia. He _chooses_ not to remember us. He says that they'll get us if he admits he knows us."

Eyes narrowed, House tilted his head to the side. "Who are they?"

"His hallucinations. We've tried everything to get rid of them, but he's too far gone." She folded her arms beneath her bosom.

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-six. As you said, he has a family history of this sort of thing."

House dropped his head for a moment. "I need you to tell me everything you can about your husband." Mrs. Gray raised her head to survey the diagnostician. "And I mean everything. Your son doesn't have much time, and we need to remain ahead of the game."

Searching his eyes for a few tense moments, Mrs. Gray surrendered a nod. "Ok," she answered. "Sometimes I just wish he would come back…the Ted I remember. But then I remember, I used to be afraid of him."

"Was he abusive?" House asked.

"No," she replied. "We loved each other, and he was always kind to me. But I wanted a family, and he was just never meant to be a father. While I was pregnant, he always ignored me, or looked at me with this…indescribable, angry expression. His schizophrenia hit shortly after Aiden was born." She paused and wiped a stray tear from her eye. "Since then, I've only had our son, and him I refuse to fear."

Watching the tiny screen in Aiden's observation room, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron viewed the many hours of observation tapes of their patient. Fast-forwarding through most of the material---since it was during the times they were physically observing him---the team focused on the quieter moments right up through the surfacing of the peripheral neuropathy. The clips didn't appear to show much of Aiden's life save drawing in his sketchbook. In those instances, he would spend anywhere from minutes to hours working on his pieces.

"So, all we've learned is the kid's an artist," Chase mumbled.

"There's got to be something else here," Cameron muttered.

Foreman sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Sure there is. We just don't know where or what it is."

Having reviewed the tapes for the past hour and a half, they continued to watch the entire thing in fast-forward, looking for any minute detail they might have missed. It seemed to be the same scene over and over again: Aiden continually risingfrom his bed or the floor to draw. Cameron noted it first. "Doesn't it seem odd to anyone else how he's always unoccupied right before he starts drawing?"

Glancing at each other, Chase and Foreman leaned in toward the screen. "Where?" Foreman inquired.

Cameron rewound some of the tape. As it played, she pointed to the screen. "Here he's on his bed." The grainy image showed the white-haired, young man laying motionless on the bed, much like he was now. "And then he just gets up and draws." In a flurry of motion, the figure on the tape rose suddenly and stooped for the sketchbook, scribbling furiously on an empty page. She fast-forwarded a bit, pointing out several similar instances, each drawing session occurring at a different pace.

The clincher came at the end of the tape, right where the peripheral neuropathy episode occurred. Just as Cameron was about to stop the film, Foreman cut her off. "No," he said. "Let's watch this."

As the clip began, only Foreman leaned in toward the screen. Chase released a groan. "We've already watched this clip four times. What is _this_ time going to prove?!"

"There!" Foreman cried, pointing to the screen. Aiden stirred, raising his left arm, then instantly recoiled and headed for his sketchbook.

Chase shook his head. "What does that prove?!"

"If you suddenly got hit with a pain that caused you to physically tense like that, would your first reaction be to draw a picture?" Foreman asked borderline accusation.

The three exchanged uneasy glances as the sounds of Aiden's panting on the video feed dented the silence of the room. Finally, Cameron glanced through the window at the real Aiden. "We need his sketchbook."

The other two turned to her. Chase spoke for both of them. "What's that gonna prove?"

She answered, "Whatever's going on with him, in his head or body, is going to be reflected in that sketchbook."

"I don't know…" Foreman said contemplatively.

'Well, you said so yourself! Why would your first reaction to pain be drawing?!" she argued.

Releasing a sigh, Foreman folded his arms. "She has a point," he said, looking at Chase.

As two pairs of eyes bore down upon him, the Australian held up his hands in defense. "Why are we looking at me?"

Cameron shrugged, arms folded like Foreman's. "You seem to be the only one who doesn't agree at this point."

Blankly, Chase stared at them for a moment, then got up, shaking his head. "I feel like I'm being plotted against," he commented as he left the room. Within moments, a nurse entered Aiden's room, casting wary glances toward his sleeping figure on the bed. She retrieved the sketchbook, exiting hastily.

Shortly thereafter, Chase returned with the black, wire-bound hardcover sketchbook, and the team gathered in a tight group to view its many ink-stained pages.

With each and every page turn, an impending sense of horror stole over the three doctors. The images came in two varieties, inexplicable macabre and grotesque beauty, and each picture varied in quality, ranging anywhere from rough figures to professionally detailed, finished pieces. The tortured faces of rotting corpses screaming out from an endless vortex of nightmares and the intricate forms of songbirds in the midst of dark clouds vied for dominance within the pages of the book. The chaos eventually arrived at the point where the doctors prayed with each turn that their eyes would not meet another disturbing page.

Two thirds of the way through, they began to notice the quality of the pieces was degenerating. The pieces grew more hurried; they focused less on detail like their predecessors and more on the main subject. A little later, the main images themselves began to lose their overall form. Instead of drawings, every piece was a scribble that might have turned out to be an actual figure at some point. But instead they sat forgotten.

The blackness of the final page bleeding through the one they were on now that merely bore a rough hewn spiral, they cast a final gaze at each other, completely aware of what they might find. Foreman released a sigh, flipping the page.

The entire room let out a breath as the breathtakingly striking image of a white peacock gazed absently up at them from the dark prison of his page. It was the most detailed piece in the entire book.

After the initial shock passed, Cameron's short scream reverberated around the tiny room. Startled, the men looked up to see Aiden standing just on the other side of the panel, glaring at them with dangerously narrowed eyes. His right hand was tightly clasped around his pen, ready for use, and his entire frame shook with fury. "Give me back my sketchbook!" he shouted at them through the wall.

They said nothing, and he continued to shout at them. Soon, his shouts became screams. Cameron pressed a nurse call button on the console, but they were already far ahead of her. Three nurses rushed in, attempting to restrain the young man who screamed and writhed like a demon. They attempted to inject him with a tranquilizer, but he wrapped his mind around the needles and continuously bent them so they couldn't be used. Helpless, they just held him where they could.

Eventually, his shaking figured stilled, the worst of his anger subsided. It was then that he glanced up with a pained look in his eye and calmly said, "On the island, there is a large willow where the faeries dance, awaiting and fearing the return of the white peacock." Then, he allowed the nurses to steer him to his bed where they injected him with the sedative, and he slept once more.

Under a day and a half remained.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11  
The Dark Priest

No matter how many times he tried, Aiden could not sleep soundly. Every time he closed his eyes, some demented thing haunted him. And it was all symbolic. Even the finest detail of the highlights in their eyes was of some merit. Just as he knew the time and date on his broken wristwatch without glancing upon its surface, he knew this was true. And as these images would flee from him, he would draw them to preserve their meaning; he would draw them to understand what it was all trying to tell him. And then, when all was said and done, he would attempt to sleep once more.

Even now he lay on his bed, eyes half-lidded, trying to slip into that sweet reprieve. As a calm swept over him, he closed his eyes, and he began to fall into sleep's arms. But just as he made contact with the quiet bliss, a half-rotted man dressed in a tattered magician's robe shoved him away, pointing furiously at a sign in his skeletal hand, lidless eyes, both bloodshot and jaundiced, glaring at him almost with terror. As both began to fall through the darkness, Aiden, his hair dancing in the wind, read the sign: Futile Philosophers Meet at Square.

He stared at the magician. "What is this supposed to mean?"

The magician raised a hand, and they both came to a gentle halt on a yellow toned ground, a gray sky looming overhead. As Aiden glanced around at the feature-less terrain, the magician turned and walked away.

"Where are-" As he realized the magician wasn't around, he scanned the horizon to see the creature disappearing on the lip of the horizon. "Hey! Wait!" But he was already gone.

Aiden remained motionless for a moment. Usually, this was where he would be cast back into reality. When he continued to remain in the dream-state, he followed in the figure's footsteps. Damn his mind for being so cryptic. Eventually, a field of short dry grasses passed underfoot. The distinct crunches of his feet smashing the blades echoed throughout the ethereal terrain. Raising his wrist, Aiden surveyed the time on his watch. Now, the hands swung normally about its face, happily displaying a time of 10:38:06...07...08...

Aiden smiled. He missed the functionality of a thing so simple as a wristwatch.

A shadow passed over him, and he froze. He jerked his head up, surprised at what he saw. Somehow, he had strayed into the middle of a city. Eyes narrowing slightly in consideration, he picked up a slow walk and surveyed the architecture. Most of it was medieval in design; the same endless structures lined both sides of the dirt road on which he walked. Whenever he came to crossroads, all directions had the same appearance, albeit, the buildings differed in outer décor and purpose. Lamps dominated the centers of each of the crossroad areas, huge and fashioned of cast iron, flames dancing within their frosted glass shields. He continued North, at least, he assumed that was the direction he was going—and was surprised when he was suddenly met with a large square.

The sudden impact of the sight slammed all of the breath out of him. For across the immense space, a huge cathedral climbed toward the sky. As the shock passed over, he allowed himself to absorb the rest of the square: simple arrangements of flowers, an intricate fountain spewing three water jets, and numerous store fronts and merchants cart. And it was here he found the first sorts of beings.

Gliding about the expanse, black shapes with white masks depicting all sorts of emotions completed their usual business. Aiden's brow furrowed in confusion as he observed. Each moment that passed sent a small shiver up his spine, ending in a twitch in his neck. He glanced from left to right, and he did just in time to leap out of the path of a sad-masked being that solemnly contemplated him while it passed. He stared after the being.

A second twinge in his neck signaled that someone was watching him. He furiously scanned the square, eyes finally resting on the fountain. There, standing like the plague in a field of daisies, was the magician with his sign, staring straight at him. He motioned with a decomposed hand to come. From all directions, strange creatures like upright-walking aardvarks wearing gas masks and monkeys with insane fang-filled smiles came and gathered about the magician. As each completed its journey, it cast its gaze toward Aiden. The magician motioned again, but Aiden did not move. This entire place creeped him out. He wanted to be free of it.

For once in his life, he _wanted_ to wake up.

Feeling the weight of the staring eyes, and no other place to go, Aiden approached. As he did so, the entire group turned and raised an appendage to the cathedral. Only the magician watched his approach. Aiden craned his neck past the Philosophers at the religious building. "Is that where I am to go?" he asked the magician.

In reply, the magician turned and pointed his own hand. Taking in a deep breath, Aiden crossed the square toward the immense building. As he went, it became painfully obvious that everyone else in the square had stopped moving to watch him go. He shifted his eyes from side to side, but he refused to look again at the horrific gathering behind him. He reached the worn steps, and he glanced up in consideration of the cathedral's impressive façade. A light breeze blew through, and he entered the building.

Impressed by the huge pillars and lofty ceiling, Aiden closed the door carefully, its singular sound amplified into that of a series of doors. He crossed the rich marble tiles, his footsteps raining throughout the entire complex. The rich mahogany pews caught his eye, and he couldn't help but run a hand over one of the glistening surfaces. As he did so, he found himself thinking it strange that such a figment as this could feel so real.

The striking of a match caught his attention sharply. His gaze jotted to the altar, at which stood a towering figure draped in black. Aiden cocked his head, and he slowly approached. The figure lit two of a trio of candles. From what Aiden noticed, the third had been lit perhaps once as compared to the others.

As the booming voice reverberated around the space, he stilled his right foot from touching the floor. "Why have you come here?! We don't want you here!"

Aiden continued walking forward, confused. "I was led to believe that a cathedral was a hall of worship, and that any who believed would be permitted entrance."

"But you do not believe," the other replied.

Aiden's neck twinged at this. He halted ten feet from the figure. "And what do you know of my beliefs."

"You have no idea…" As the black folds of the cloak swung about, the face of a man became visible. He was tall with light hair--almost silver in places--and he possessed eyes that were both light in color and cold in temperament. His hard face glared down upon the boy who seemed to shrink before his very presence. "You have no idea what I know about you, what you have destroyed for me." As he spoke, he descended a short series of stairs down to where Aiden stood. A strong hand, bony and pale reached down and clamped around Aiden's throat, and he was lifted bodily from the ground, legs swinging madly. "You worthless wretch!" he shouted as he shook the boy struggling in his hand.

Aiden's neck burned with a horrible pain where the man's grip held him. He tried to wrap his mind around the man, but he couldn't. Any sort of control his mind held over objects in the real world obviously didn't exist here. Instead, he rasped, "I do not fear you."

The fury in the man's frame abated to fear for a moment. Then, he spoke calmly, "The peacock is both waited for and feared, I've heard the story. But there's one thing you keep forgetting, wretch, a peacock can't swim out to the island when it's dead!"

Though he couldn't ever place having met the man before, combative words came easily to him. "And you keep forgetting this, Dark Priest: while both apprehension and acceptance may greet its arrival, when Silence dies, there will be hell to pay."

As all life seeped away from him, Aiden's eyes slowly rolled hopelessly to the back of his head, and a cleansing light washed over him.

With a gasp, Aiden's eyes flew open, taking in his white hospital room. His right hand flew to his neck. Although it hadn't been real, the feeling of the man's hand around his throat still existed. A flash of the priest's face slammed him, and his neck blazed again. He gasped, unwilling to emit any other sound because of the pain. He climbed down from his bed and scrambled for his sketchbook. He knew, of that entire dream, that he had to draw the man's face.

He grabbed the pen, the sketchbook already at a new page for him. He sketched a rough outline, and the image hit him again. As it did, his neck spasmed, and began to burn with pain. Tears threatened to cloud his vision, but he scribbled furiously on. As the pain escalated, he knew he had to make a choice as to which features should be noted. Despite the burn, the answer came easily: the eyes and the hair.

He dropped the pen, and he charged for the nurse call button, finally giving in to the urge to resist screaming. His mind raced. He had to figure out who to show the drawing to. He knew it was vital…so it had to be someone who could decipher it, someone who was clever enough to decode the images of his mind. He knew the three doctors couldn't do it (they had to resort to asking him what the drawings in his sketchbook meant, which he refused to answer). No, not them, but who? He already knew the answer. He was already aware of the identity of the person who had to understand the messages his mind was sending out.

Two nurses rushed in to assist him. Just as they prepared to sedate him, Aiden said, "Show that to Dr. House." His free hand pointed to the sketchbook, from which a dark priest--fashioned from still-drying ink--watched on with slight satisfaction.

The time on Aiden's watch was once again stationary at 2:23:04 pm on 10/17. The time on the wall clock was 2:23:04 pm of October 16th.

Exactly one day remained.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12  
At War

October 17th, 6:57 am

As the pale light of the morning sun gently bathed New Jersey, Dr. Gregory House stood outside his office on his balcony, contemplating his team's latest goose-chase idea. While he had been attempting to track down files on Ted Gray, trying to dig up anything and everything of use, his team had decided to formulate their own ideas. When they met again after the onset of Aiden's latest symptom, the three bombarded him confidently with it: a brain tumor. And not just a tumor; they were convinced he had brain cancer, despite the fact that his MRI had come up clean save for the abnormal massing that had been present since his birth (believed to be the area that allowed his telekinesis). He let them do their testing anyway. He needed more time to unearth Ted Gray.

As the serenity of the nearly painting-perfect scene shattered with the click of a door, House turned to see Wilson emerging from his office. Quietly, the oncologist slowly stalked toward him, glancing about as if wary of watchful eyes. "There's no cancer," House said.

Wilson nodded. "He came up clean." His voice sounded as soft as the morning light.

"Tumors?"

"None."

Nodding himself, House glanced over at his friend. "You're not surprised I know this."

"No, I've gotten used to the fact that you always seem to know things." He paused for a moment. "Now a days, I just try to figure out why you know them." As House looked down and away, he continued in the same hushed tone. "You never actually thought it was cancer, so you let them poke around for what? For fun? That certainly does seem like you, but we both know that isn't the case here. What are you chasing after?"

"We know everything about this kid: schooling, hobbies, dreams, everything. The only thing we don't know much about is his father: no pictures, no files, no nothing."

Wilson placed his hands on his hips. "Did you request any information from the mother?"

House nodded. "It should be here within the hour."

"So, you think Aiden's illness has something to do with his father?"

"The man didn't want kids, we know that now. Shortly after Aiden is born, the guy snaps: instant schizophrenia…like he bought it in a can at a local grocery store. He practically waited for it to hit."

"Yeah, I'm sure he was just copping out of being a parent by waiting for the 10:00 schizo-train. Come on, House-"

"But he didn't cop out," House interrupted. "His wife says that he doesn't show any recognition of them because if he did, they would get them."

"So he's paranoid, what does that prove, other than he has paranoid schizophrenia?"

"He's at war with himself, and he's fighting to protect his family."

Staring silently at him for but a moment, Wilson broke out in laughter. "What are you trying to get at?"

"What I'm getting at is up until he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, he didn't want a family. Then, once it hits, he automatically starts protecting them from his fantasies. Something happened between Aiden's birth and his diagnosis to cause that change of heart."

Wilson gaped. "Sure, he saw the light or something and changed his ways, how does that relate to Aiden's previous condition in any way?"

House leaned against the railing. "I have no idea." He glanced up at his friend, blue eyes shimmering slyly in the sunlight. "I just know it does."

Both men turned as Foreman cracked the door open. "He's started seizing," he said, looking House straight in the face. As Wilson and House exchanged unreadable expressions, Foreman disappeared within the shuttered office.

"And now it starts to look like cancer," House said.

"But it isn't, we've already ruled that out," Wilson replied.

House picked his cane off the railing. "Yeah." Almost unwillingly, he limped back into his office.

9:34 am

By the time "within the hour" had been long gone, Ted Gray's file finally arrived on House's desk. The team, in the middle of a heated theory discussion, migrated over to House's office as the diagnostician limped to retrieve it. He settled in his desk, and he grasped the file, flipping it open to survey.

"We could do an LP," Cameron said to House from the chair in front of his desk.

Perched on the edge of a far bookcase, Chase groaned. "Last time we tried to do that, he started seizing."

Foreman, who was standing next to the doorway they had recently passed through, fixed Chase with a credulous glare. "It's a shame some form of anticonvulsant hasn't been discovered. Oh wait! It has!"

Chase shot his own dirty look back in his colleague's direction. "We don't even have a shred of proof that it's necessary-" "Then why were you performing a lumbar puncture before?" House asked, brow furrowed in concentration as he skimmed over the countless pages of scribbles.

"We-" Chase started, but he stopped short. Both Cameron and Foreman were casting cautioning glances at him. "What's the point in hiding it?!"

Foreman looked back at House and replied, "It's not a big deal."

Tearing his gaze from the file, House stared at the neurologist. "Sticking needles into someone's spine isn't a big deal?! That's fantastic! Wait till I tell Dr. Cuddy!"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "What I meant was the reason why we were doing it wasn't a big deal."

Chase scoffed.

Nodding, House returned to his file. "You were looking for a tumor."

The three exchanged more glances. Cameron leaned forward. "Well…" But she froze as House glanced up from Ted Gray's file.

In an instant, Foreman took charge. "Wilson may have concluded it wasn't brain cancer, and we may not have found tumors in his brain-"

"Or anywhere for that matter…" House mused, looking back to the file.

"Right, but the symptoms still fit perfectly for a spinal cord tumor."

"You're right," House said as he flipped a page. "They do fit on a tumor like a glove, don't they?" Suddenly, he stopped glancing through the file, fixed on one page, eyes narrowed as he studied it.

Chase's eyebrows raised. "I'll say. The random firings of pain, the changes in his character…"

As he dragged on with the similarities, House rose from his chair and headed back into the adjoined space--file in hand--to where Aiden's sketchbook lay forlorn on the table. He snatched it, flipping through the pages to the back.

Now, Foreman's voice made the white-noise. "Well…some of his symptoms were better explained by a brain tumor, but there are still a lot of similarities with a spinal cord tumor…"

The shape of the face, the highlights of the hair, and the rendering of the eyes of "The Dark Priest" all caused House's mind to halt. For within the file, a picture of Ted Gray smiled back at him whereas the same man, wrought from ink by his own son's hand, stared coldly up from the sketchbook. Suddenly, it seemed so clear: the peripheral neuropathy, the neck and chest pain, the deadening sensation of the "Darkness", all of it. All of it could be explained.

As the external conversation died down, House ordered, "Do the LP."

The three doctors stared at him silently. "You think it's a spinal cord tumor?" Foreman asked, shocked that he might actually be agreeing with them.

He shook his head. "No, something else."

"What?" Chase inquired.

House tapped the sketchbook. "A brain aneurysm."

Now wide-eyed, Cameron ventured, "But his symptoms…"

"Fit," Foreman cut in, head hung down. "At least, for a ruptured aneurysm."

Chase remained solely dubious. "Yeah, his symptoms fit, but they occurred over a period of time. If it was a ruptured brain aneurysm, he'd be dead by now."

"Unless these are only mild ones," House answered.

The shocked silence spread like wild-fire. "Mild ones?" Foreman asked, voice pitched high.

"Yes," House answered. He turned, meeting them all faces to face. "Multiple brain aneurysms."

This time, Foreman scoffed. "That's ridiculous! It's never been heard of!"

"Doesn't mean it's never occurred."

The two men reeled, pacing about. Cameron glanced between them and their boss. "Foreman's right, this is ridiculous. Even if he did have multiple brain aneurysms, by now he'd be dead-"

"Not necessarily. He's a strong kid. Why couldn't he-"

"And how did he magically get multiple brain aneurysms? Family trait?" Cameron asked sarcastically.

"Something like that," House said, gathering the file and sketchbook and heading toward the door.

Cameron spoke for all of them. "Where are you going?"

House didn't bother glancing back. "To get Mummy's consent."

"She already consented to the LP, which was why we were performing one when the seizures hit," Chase cut in.

House paused, and turned. "I never said I was going to get her consent on an LP." As he left them in the hands of silence, the three needed only to share their looks of fear, doubt, and anger, and they stormed off together to requisition the aid of the one person in the hospital who could stop their boss.

10:49 am

Mrs. Gray stared straight faced, but with horror in her eyes at the face of the Dark Priest. She reached out, taking hold of the book. "Aiden drew this?"

"Yes," House answered.

"Oh my God…" Her face metamorphosed into the very mask of solemnity. "That's Ted. But, he looks so young! He looked like that right before…" The words died on her breath.

"Your son is suffering from multiple brain aneurysms," House broke to her.

Her gaze shot up to him, her sobs choked back and stilled. "What?"

"Typically, there's only one brain aneurysm, but when they rupture-"

"I know what a brain aneurysm is. Ted's father almost died of one. We rushed to his bed side at two in the morning. I…remember…but multiple brain aneurysms?!"

House nodded. "It's never technically been diagnosed, but that doesn't mean that he can't have it. New diseases are being discovered all the time."

She glanced from him to the book in her hands. She touched the face of her son's drawing. "I believe you," she said after a moment. She looked up to find the man's eyes as unreadable as always. "If the answer to all of this had been easy, it would have been found long ago. So what do we do about it?"

House paused, giving a short nod of acceptance. "I think you had better understand why I think he has them first."

Mrs. Gray's face wilted slightly. "What is there to understand?"

"I think the reason he has these multiple brain aneurysms, the trigger of his telekinesis, and your husband's paranoid schizophrenia are all involved."

"What?"

House took in a breath. "I think, when Aiden was a baby, before your husband was diagnosed, that something happened between the two that sparked how they are now. Was there ever a moment when the two were alone, and when you came back that Aiden seemed different?"

"N-no…wait…yes…one time. But I just went out to the mailbox. Aiden was unusually quiet, but Ted was acting strange. He kept fretting over Aiden's quietness, asking me over an over again if he was ok. That was when I first thought something was wrong with Ted, but I never suspected that…Aiden…"

"I think your husband shook him."

Mrs. Gray was motionless. "What?"

"I think that Ted shook Aiden at that time, which caused weakening in the blood vessels in his head, which, when he suffered his first mild brain aneurysm sparked an area of his brain to develop telekinetic powers. The quietness could have been an aftereffect, one that still lasts, but as he aged, the weakened blood vessels disappeared. But, having had a brain aneurysm before as well as swelling in the telekinetic area of his brain, he developed many more aneurysms which encircled the swollen area. Being as physically fit as he is with the astounding mental capacity to deal with these sort of events, he survived several aneurysms where one should have killed him."

Sensing the hesitance in his voice, Mrs. Gray ventured fearfully, "But?"

House sighed. "But these are just the brunt of the storm. I think he has many more aneurysms, and if we don't stop them, they will kill him." Tears invaded the corners of her eyes, but Mrs. Gray brushed them off. "What do we do?"

A strong feminine voice stopped them both cold. "We don't do anything."

House turned to see Drs Foreman, Cameron, and Chase being led down the hall by an enraged Dr. Cuddy, complete in a stunning khaki suit with a skirt bottom and a rather revealing jacket. "Dr. Cuddy!" House shouted. Although it was a deserted hallway, he still spoke as loud as if it were crowded. "You're all looking stunning today!"

"For the last time, stop talking about me as if I'm three people!" she barked as she closed in on him.

"I'm sorry. It's just so difficult with three of you trying so hard to fit into one shirt."

Confused, Mrs. Gray glanced between the two. "What's going on here?"

"What ever it was he was about to mention is not going to happen," Cuddy answered.

Angrily, House shouted, "This is the kid's only chance to survive, and you're turning it down?!"

Cuddy rounded on him. "I'm not turning it down! I'm banning it!"

"You don't even know what it is!"

"Precisely!" she retorted. "No one has ever even heard of multiple brain aneurysms; so what makes you think you can just do whatever to want to get rid of them?!"

"My insane crazy plan is surgical clipping: the standard procedure."

From out of nowhere, Wilson's voice contributed, "That's a rather practical notion, Lisa."

For a moment, Cuddy said nothing as all eyes went to Wilson as he joined them. She turned her attention back to House. "Surgical clipping is the more dangerous of the "standard procedures", and you want to do it on multiple brain aneurysms?" she asked cockily.

House scoffed. "What is it with you? I can perform the procedure, but not because of how many aneurysms there are?"

Cuddy cut him off. "I never said you could!"

"Yeah, it's dangerous, but that procedure is the only way-"

Cuddy shook her head, holding up a hand. "You can proceed with it after you get consent and it's proven he actually has multiple aneurysms."

House paused to recompose. "We both know there's no way to prove it! They're hidden from scans by the swollen matter they surround, and an LP would only show one not several!"

"Well, you pulled this diagnosis out of your hat, I'm sure you'll think of something," Cuddy replied. "And until you do, you don't touch him!" As she said this, she pointed a finger at his dark scowling form.

"I want you to do it," Mrs. Gray's quiet, strong voice said from behind the pair. All eyes went to her confident form. "I don't care if it's never been done, or if it's dangerous. I believe that this is his only chance, and I believe that this could save him."

Cuddy looked solemnly at her. "But, while it may seem like a good idea now, this is a dangerous procedure, especially given your son's current condition. You might want to consider-"

"I've had years to consider it!" Mrs. Gray interrupted. "I'm ready to accept that this is the only chance he has."

Cuddy's almost hopeless gaze dropped to the floor. Sensing a victory, House cast a glance over to his team, who met his eyes as timidly as guilty puppies. "I'm sorry," Cuddy said at long last, searching out Mrs. Gray's decided eyes. "Given the seriousness of the situation, I can't let it happen." Turning, she headed back down the hall.

House didn't move. "Why don't we let Aiden decide?" he asked.

Cuddy halted, and she turned to consider him. "You think it makes a difference who says yes or no? I'm not going to change my mind."

"We're at war," he said coldly. "He doesn't trust me, and I don't trust him. In fact, I'm afraid of him." House directed the last part to Wilson, who accepted the knowledge with a straight face. "He has a beautiful mind, and it's my belief it should be preserved. But, the thing with his mind is it's quick to judge and assess. It would take a lot for me to convince him of anything."

"So what?" Cuddy asked, speaking calmly now. "You want me to say that you can do it if he believes you're right?"

Shifting his gaze to Mrs. Gray for a moment, he replied, "Yes."

The hard-cored Cuddy slowly melted away before their eyes until all that was left was a weakened, defeated creature. "Fine," she said, releasing a heavy sigh. She gave Mrs. Gray a look of pity, and she turned and retreated down the hall. Glancing between Cuddy and House, Foreman shook his head and stormed off, Cameron and Chase following blankly behind. Even Mrs. Gray turned and headed for the nearby bench.

Finally, House and Wilson made eye contact. "Are you ready for this?" Wilson asked. "To face him like this, I mean."

With a quick downward glance at his watch, House replied, "As ready as I'll ever be."

11:03 am: he had under three hours and twenty minutes to convince Aiden that he knew how to save him.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13  
Armistice

Armed with sketchbook, file, and cane, House gave a brief sigh, and entered Aiden's room. A stain of black amid the white, the young man sat on his bed with his knees drawn up, face buried in his folded arms. House stared at his still form, wondering what could possibly be reeling inside his mind. The door shut confidently behind him, and they were alone.

As the noise dissolved into nonexistence, an uncomfortable pall fell over them. House didn't move; he was sure the kid would address him when he was ready. But the longer the inevitable was delayed the more tense he became internally. Finally, a low vibration entered at the edge of sound. The noise itself was indiscernible. As it grew in intensity, the young man on the bed visibly shook with it: laughter.

At last, as it died away once more, Aiden Gray raised his head, his face contorted into a malicious smile. "So," he said at length, his voice hushed but steel-edged nonetheless. "You've come back to me."

House did not move. Instead, he replied, "Yes."

Aiden's eyes wandered to the sketchbook in his hands. "You've brought my sketchbook, I see. Have you finally come to sort it out with me, or did you give up like they did?"

Even as the sly smile bore into him, House was not fooled. He knew precisely that Aiden meant his team and not the other doctors that had ever dealt with him. "I have the answer," he replied after a time. "But first I want to ask why. Why did you seek me out personally to solve this?" As he spoke, he opened the sketchbook to "The Dark Priest" and waved it about.

"You already know the answer to that question," Aiden answered. His serious eyes prospected the man before him. "You know the answer just as you know why you had to come here solo and confront me. This is our war, Dr. House, and I never fight against anything less than a formidable opponent."

"So, because I'm your enemy, you sent it to me?"

Aiden gazed skyward, unblinking. "Not exactly. It's because you are _worthy_ enough to be my enemy that I sent it to you. None of the others can possibly understand me, so what's the point in sending it to them? From our first meeting I knew you would be the one to either save or break me."

House contemplated his words. "So, you're afraid of me?"

As fierce as a gale, the sketchbook and file tore away from House's grasp, spewing across the floor. The diagnostician stared after them as Aiden's voice explained, "You're the one who's afraid."

House looked back at his patient. The young man's body hadn't moved, and even his eyes still kept watch on the ceiling. "Then why do you withhold trust from people?"

Aiden's chest swelled and fell as he released a defeated sigh. In the span of a second, his eyebrows raised, and he attained a solemn expression. "They're afraid of me. They always have been, and that isn't likely to change. I cannot change what I am…who I am…but I can't place my faith in people who tremble at the sight of me…in people who are too afraid to have an opinion different than mine. It's like…they forget they're human when they stand before me…why _should_ I trust them?" He fell silent.

"I might be afraid of you, but that's not going to stop me from doing my job. I've figured out what's wrong with you, and you can either accept it or deny it, frankly I don't care." By this point, Aiden's eyes had refocused on the doctor. "You have multiple brain aneurysms surrounding the swollen telekinetic area in your brain, and if we don't do something about them, they will rupture, and you will die. I don't need to tell you when this will happen; you already know."

Aiden cast one minute glance at his watch. "And by the overly confident aura surrounding you I can venture that you know what sparked all of this?"

Almost imperceptibly, House nodded. "When you were very young, your father shook you…what the medical world has so lovingly deemed it nowadays: Shaken Baby Syndrome. The truth of the matter is it's very likely that such a trauma caused weakening of the vessels in your brain which in turn caused a mild brain aneurysm. When that one ruptured, it caused your brain to develop telekinetic powers. Over time, the vessels must have strengthened. But now more of these aneurysms are showing up. All of your symptoms can be explained by ruptured aneurysms or by increased pressure caused by aneurysms that haven't yet gone bad. Yay for you…And--best of all--all of these aneurysms are focused around the telekinetic area of your brain."

"Hmm," Aiden answered. "So tell me: do you think I'm going to trust you just because you're proving yourself to be different than the others? Do you think that--just because you have your theory--that I'm going to embrace it whole-heartedly?"

House tapped his cane on the floor. "No."

Aiden tilted his head slightly and leaned forward. "Then what do you have that makes you so special? What proof do you have that should completely alter my opinion?"

Silently, House pointed to the drawing of the priest on the floor and the disemboweled file on the ground. The picture of Ted Gray and Aiden's drawing lay mere feet apart. As Aiden's gaze fell upon them both, he shifted his legs down so he could lean in closer. House read his expressions carefully. "Amazing how alike they are, isn't it?"

Aiden stared at the images. "But…that's…"

"Your father," House finalized.

After another moment of staring, Aiden fell back against the wall, completely absorbed in his own world.

House could almost see the mental gears whirring in the boy's eyes. "I know it's hard, but I need you to listen to me.

"There's a procedure called surgical clipping. Basically, we go in and neutralize the aneurysms before they rupture. Normally, this procedure is risky, but in your circumstances…it's important for you to know that, because of where the aneurysms are located, the risk factors are considerably higher."

Here, Aiden broke from his reverie. "You know I don't care about that, which means there's something else that you haven't yet shared…something more vital to my decision."

House took in the young man before him again. Despite his abilities, he was still human, and the cold solemnity in his eyes just amplified that. "There is a chance--a high chance--that this procedure will cause permanent loss of your telekinetic powers."

For a moment, House wasn't sure if Aiden had even heard him for he did not move a muscle. Then thought struck him that the young man could be searching for some major calamity to raise in retaliation of the news. He gripped his cane even tighter, but no blast came. There was no chaos, only the quite room sitting around them.

"So," Aiden said after a few moments. His voice spoke so soft and solemn it would have broken his mother's heart. "This is when Silence dies." His gaze fell down to his hands, and he glanced them over as an artist with an appreciative eye. "It's strange…I always thought it would be more chaotic, yet now that I'm here…" Slowly, a tired smile curled the corners of his lips. "Now that I'm here it's almost peaceful."

House stared at him. "That's it? After all of this, you just accept it?"

Aiden raised his exhausted eyes. "You gave me proof that I could trust you: you solved my puzzle."

"So what? What the hell did that prove?! That I could look at a drawing and a picture and put one and one together to make two?"

"It's not what the pictures proved that mattered, Dr. House. It's what they represented that did."

For a moment, the doctor stared at the young man. "What? That your drawing was of your father?"

Aiden nodded.

House shook his head. "I don't get it!"

Aiden closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the wall. "You never will, House. You may win the battle, but that doesn't mean you win the war."

"I thought the war was over."

Icy blue gaze resurfacing from behind pale eyelids, Aiden glared at House patiently. "I give you permission to do the procedure, but that means only that you've won the battle."

"You still want to fight even after I've fixed you? Because, then there won't be any point. You'll be out of here, and I won't care anymore."

A satisfied, almost playful smile graced Aiden's features. "And yet you're the one who cares whether the war is truly over or not."

Dropping his head, House remained silent. Then, he said, "I'll schedule the surgery." Turning, he headed for the door.

Aiden chuckled. "I have to hand it to you. You turned out to be a better opponent than I originally anticipated." House turned to see Aiden looking back at him with an expression of approval, one hand extended for a shake. "Shall we call this an armistice?"

Considering the proffered hand, House limped forward and took firm hold, giving a brief shake. Their eyes met again, but only exchanges of acceptance were made. Deliberately leaving the sketchbook and file behind, House left Aiden's room with sense of victory, all thoughts of fear long since banished from thought.


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue

Crossing the foyer with purpose, Dr. James Wilson slowed as his eyes fell upon the jacketed figure of Greg House, all ready for his lunch break. As the latter fussed with a chart, the former rolled his eyes and approached. "I was under the impression that you had no need of charts and other such medical hum-drum," he commented.

House glanced up at his approach. "It turns out Cuddy's still sore about the confrontation the other day in front of my patient's mother."

"Uh huh…speaking of which, who won?"

Handing the completed chart to the nurse at the station, House headed for the double doors. "Well, she thinks she has because I'm filling out the charts, but I haven't written anything medical on them to date so…it's up in the air at this point. But I'd say I'm in the lead."

Wilson blinked and sighed, following his friend to the door. "I meant your patient. Who won the war?"

As they drew close enough to it, the door flung open for them seemingly of it's own accord. Startled, the two doctors looked up to see Aiden Gray standing at the street curb, light glinting in his icy blue eyes. As gentle breeze tossed his white, light blonde hair about, he smiled. A moderately worn maroon Buick pulled up to the curb, and the young man disappeared inside it with one last backward glance.

Wilson and House left the building and stood, watching the car melt into the traffic. Glancing at the diagnostician, Wilson ventured, "I take it _he _won the war."

House smiled. "Yeah. He did."

He continued on down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, leaving Wilson to stare after him. At long last, the oncologist muttered, "There's something I'm missing." But even as he followed after his friend, Wilson pushed any hope of discovering the missing piece from his mind. The case was closed, and the war was over.

The white peacock had finally made it to the island.


End file.
